long past sunset
by thunderstorm-skald
Summary: The clash of metal on metal and the scent of sweat and dust rises into the night air and come morning, the Man is exhausted and grinning and there is gold in their muddy eyes, silver in their earthen hair, and a seen that isn't perspiration has settled over them.
1. Chapter 1

_I was an artist, a creator_, the tiny, frail child of Man murmurs when he finds them long past sunset, seated in the darkness of the armory. Their legs are crossed like an Elfling's and a dull steel practice sword balances across their thighs, right thumb idly rubbing the edge of the blade. _I crafted art and songs and stories and lives and buildings and worlds_, and it is hard to match the softness in their voice to any emotion he knows the name of, save for longing, heart-ache and longing. They turn their bright shining eyes to him, and a shiver runs down his spine at the fury in their gaze. _Fighting is an art, too, in its own way._

_Yes_, he agrees, for what else can he do when faced with this wild animal of a person, staring him in the eye and asking for a fight, a battle, any small way to release the energy and anger they can hardly contain?

_Teach me_, and it is a question and a request and an order all in one, and he obliges because it is not the words that are silver, but the tongue, and for what else can he do when faced with this gentle child of a person, not quite meeting his gaze and asking for a lesson, instruction, any big way to learn the ways of a world they do not quite fit into yet?

The clash of metal on metal and the scent of sweat and dust rises into the night air and come morning, the Man is exhausted and grinning and there is gold in their muddy eyes, silver in their earthen hair, and a sheen that isn't perspiration has settled over them.

Men do not live forever, and they are young and grey all at once.

This he knows, yet a shadow of doubt has wormed its way into his mind. He is not entirely sure he desires to explore it further, and simply inclines his head at the beaming smile they turn on him as they bow out, back away and down the hall and back to their rooms.

Days pass into weeks pass into months and the frail child grows strong, grows bright, grows into themself, and despite being just as small as they were upon their arrival, seem bigger, take up more space, hold themself with more confidence, more grace, more belonging each time they come and go and come and go and come and go from the valley.

_Lindrhovan_, he says when he finds them standing at the edge of the main bridge late one night, freshly returned from a months-long journey to the east and whispering prayers and poems and verses under their breath, and they shiver, smile, press a hand over their heart, dip their head in acknowledgement. He knows not their name and has thus chosen to give them one of their own.

When they turn towards him, their hair shines silver and brown and their eyes flash gold and brown and the ink that snakes up their arms writhes when they are unnerved and they join him in his private quarters for a meal shared, and of the four names that tumble out of their mouth on their fifth glass of wine with him, only one is recognizable to him.

He does not need to wonder what this means. He has known since the beginning, but knowledge and acceptance are two different things.

Days pass into weeks pass into months pass into years and they do not demand answers so much as come into them, and it is this that tells him that they, too, have known all along.

They are nineteen, are thirty-six, are fifty-four, are seventy-one, are nineteen still, still, still, and their eyes glint gold and on the sixtieth year since they arrived in the valley, a terrified child gasping prayers and curses, a lost child crumpled to the bridge and in danger of throwing themself off, he names them _Captain_, names them _Peredhel_, names them _his_, gives them a father, a sister, two brothers, gives them a _home_.

And still they come and go and come and go, staying for a few months, a few weeks, a few days, before setting off again and each time they leave, a flicker of fear warns him that someday they will not return and he will be left burning an empty pyre for a lost child. But still they appear at the entrance to the valley, filthy and exhilarated, each time wiser and braver and brighter.

_They call me Runner, call me Stormbreaker, call me Half-Elf_, they whisper once, age eighty-three and still young, still barely a child in his eyes, tracing strange letters and symbols and words with a pen into paper, ink seeping from between their fingers with practiced grace long past sunset just as summer is breathing its last winds into fall. He watches them, eyes flickering with the candlelight and waits. _The Dunedain and the people of Rohan and the Easterlings and those of Gondor and and and_. There is a note of awe in their voice that he understands from ages long past and they look up at him, eyes wide and a half-smile playing on their lips. The pen presses deep into the parchment, leaving a spreading pool of ink and staining their fingertips.

And the next morning he tucks more lembas bread into their pack and brushes the braid behind their ear and kisses their forehead and by sunrise, they have vanished into the mountains, on to the next path, the next dawn, the next sunset, chasing head and heart and _is this what home feels like?_

He cannot tie this Man, this child, this grown wild thing to him or to his realm or to anywhere in the world, and yet—

_Come home._

_I belong not here._

_You belong where your heart lies. Come home._

They do not stay in the valley that night, or in the nights following, and it is nearing the turning of the moon before they find their way into his and his children's chambers and their eyes find four sets of matching blue ones and they let him hold them then, like a lifeline, like they will slip away if he breathes too sharply, and they allow him to press a kiss to their forehead, allow their sister to polish their sword, allow their brothers to braid their hair, all five of them speaking in an ancient language they picked up like second nature and the sun rises and rises and rises and they come and go and come and go and come and go and go and go and go—


	2. Chapter 2

The night is beginning to fade into pale dawn, dew glistening on the roses, and Gandalf has yet to sleep, choosing instead to suck on his pipe and blow smoke rings into ships and butterflies and dogs. He is confident that Bilbo Baggins will come around and accompany the Dwarves on their journey, and as he stretches his legs out, he idly wonders how such an adventurous child grew into this homebody of a man. Perhaps, he muses, it has something to do with the brutal deaths of his parents. That would shake even the most steadfast of souls. But no matter. He is here now, sitting on a bench in front of Bag End and waiting for the sun to rise and the Dwarves to stir and for Thorin to lead them into the wild and the future. Bilbo has time and the betting pool Nori started the night prior will pay off in Gandalf's favor.

"Mithrandir."

Gandalf startles out of his thoughts and turns at the sound of his name, choking on the smoke from his pipe at the sight of a small Man standing at Bilbo Baggins's gate. They are clad in dark, worn travelling clothes and carry a sword at their hip and a bow across their shoulders, a travelling rucksack slung over their back. He vaguely recognizes them, and while he is rather bemused by their presence, he is unsurprised by it. Rumors and stories tell of a slight half-Elf with a talent for being exactly where aid is needed, and over the years, Gandalf has learned to connect those whispers to the being in front of him.

"Runner."

They dip their head in greeting, silver-brown hair falling in front of their face and obscuring their expression. Gandalf rises fluidly, tucking his pipe into his robes and tightening his grip on his staff.

"Well met." And yes, that voice belongs to the Ranger he's encountered barely a handful of times.

"Indeed." Gandalf's eyes narrow in suspicion and he strides forward to meet them at the gate, stopping just short of it and staring down at them. "Forgive me, but what brings you to the Shire?" Runner's eyes flash in the golden light from Bilbo's windows and their grip tightens around the hilt of their sword as Gandalf extends his right arm towards them.

"Your…Company," they settle on finally, warily clasping forearms in greeting. "They will be needing a guide through the harsher wilds, should they survive long enough to reach them." There is no malevolence that he can sense in either their words nor their intentions, and Runner is not known for their duplicity nor malice.

"How came you to know of this journey?" asks Gandalf regardless. Their mouth twitches almost in amusement and they cock their head to the side, considering him for a long moment. Their eyes grow distant and Gandalf is convinced they are not going to answer.

"It matters not." Despite their abrupt proclamation, Runner's voice is steady, and they spread their arms, dipping into a mock bow. "I am here to offer you my services, free of charge, should you require them." Gandalf chuckles and swings the gate open, stepping off of Bilbo's property and into the road in front of Runner.

"You reside in Imladris, do you not?" he asks, changing the subject. Runner smiles politely back at him. "Does the Lord Elrond know of your whereabouts?"

"Lord Elrond," says Runner evenly, "knows only that I have left on a journey of a few months and will return in due time." They lift their chin and hold his eyes, flashing brown to twinkling blue. "Although I fail to see how that is relevant."

"The Lord Elrond is a friend of mine," Gandalf says innocently, "I simply wish to confirm that his subjects are—"

"The Lord Elrond's subjects come and go as they please, _wizard_," hisses Runner. "Do not presume to hold the low standards of the rule of kings to that of Imladris. Not all realms follow a line of conquest and control, dominance and fealty." There is fury and force in their voice and Gandalf notes their defense of his friend for later. Runner takes a steadying breath. "Many moons have passed since last we spoke," they say softly. "The shadows grow darker with each passing day and still the White Counsel ignores it. Saruman is the one to blame for this all and for that, I do not trust him."

"Saruman is the greatest of the order of Istari," Gandalf says lowly. "Do not speak ill of him. He is simply preoccupied by—"

"Do not make excuses, _Istar_," Runner spits. "Your _order_ are not the only ones watching over these realms." They snarl something in a language Gandalf has never heard before and does not understand, and in the distance, thunder rumbles. "Have you travelled east, into the Greenwood as of late?" they ask after a moment.

"No," Gandalf says slowly. "Why? What have you seen?" Runner shakes their head in disgust, turning away from him and striding down the road a few paces. "Runner. What have you—"

"Darkness, more foul than I have seen," they spit. "It is like a wound, seeping and festering, and all that grows either withers or thrives, and you do not want to know what can grow in such vile conditions." They fall silent and shiver violently, and Gandalf does not know if he wants them to continue. "The old fortress grows more powerful and evil things are drawn to it. Horrible, unholy things, creatures that hiss in languages better left forgotten." Runner's voice grows hoarse. "I do not wish to think of it, but I must, if—" they cut themself off, shaking their head. "It matters not."

Questions fill Gandalf's mind, but he doubts Runner will answer any of them.

_If what? Why have you come here? What has struck such fear into you? What have you seen? How came you to know of this meeting? How came you to know of anything at all? From where do you hail and to where do you return? Wby do you offer a band of strangers aid in a journey to what may be their demise? Who are you Runner? Who are you, really? And what has brought you to travel the world like a lost soul?_

"This is my home as much at it is yours, Mithrandir," and there is a hidden meaning in their words that Gandalf senses, yet does not understand. "And if you do not do something, _I _will, and you do not wish to witness the power whispers hold."

It is a clear threat and Gandalf does not know what to make of it.

Wordlessly, Runner starts down the road out of Hobbiton and vanishes into the dawn.

Part of their path lies through Greenwood, and if things are as bad as Runner seems to think they are, there is a danger the company might not survive the journey.

Failure and death are not an option.


End file.
